


Nervous Disposition

by Lexigent



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 01:30:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3155855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexigent/pseuds/Lexigent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes has vulnerabilities like anyone else, however little he likes to admit to them.<br/>For the prompt "Frost, fingers, gloves".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nervous Disposition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Small_Hobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/gifts).



Being in Sherlock Holmes' pockets as much as I was, given my position as his biographer, I found out soon enough that he had vulnerabilities just like anyone else.

I had long since accepted that neither my leg nor my shoulder would ever be what they had before the Afghan campaign. There would always be days when the autumn rains and winter chills would increase the pain to a degree that would have detained me indoors, were it not for the medical knowledge that taking exercise would, in the long run, be beneficial on the condition after an initial period of discomfort.

I had returned from just such a constitutional on a frosty November day and was taking off my coat, hat and gloves in the hall when I heard my friend's violin from our study. I had not seen him about all morning, so knowing that he was up raised my spirits. As I made my way up the stairs, I grew somewhat alarmed, for the sounds drifting through the door were nothing akin to the melodious tunes Holmes preferred as a diversion, and which I had grown so fond of.

I opened the door as noiselessly as I could manage. He had his back to me and did not turn around or otherwise acknowledge my presence. He maligned the instrument for some while longer, but finally gave it up as a bad job and put it back in its case, fastening it shut with feeling. He gave a nod in my direction by way of acknowledging my presence in the room.

"My dear fellow," I enquired, "whatever seems to be the matter?"

Instead of answering, he made his way over to the window and looked outside. I had grown accustomed to these silences of his, but this one stretched out so long that I wondered if it might not be better to take a step or two towards him, or better still, to leave him to his own devices until he was in a more congenial frame of mind.

"It is of no consequence," he finally said and turned sharply towards me. I raised an eyebrow and was about to speak when he threw his hands up in a dramatic gesture, then lowered himself onto the settee beside me. "An affliction. A nervous disposition. It is torturous to Lassus, to myself, and, I am ashamed to say, to you, my dear Watson."

"You are aware that you are speaking to a medical man, so when you say 'nervous disposition', I hope you will forgive me when I say my curiosity is somewhat piqued." I tried to keep the true extent of my alarm out of my voice, but judging by the expression on Holmes' face, I had not succeeded.

"There seems to be little rhyme or reason to it, I doubt it is a matter of professional interest."

"Humour me." I sat up straight and looked him up and down as though he truly were my patient.

"How long have you had this, as you call it, affliction?"

"I cannot say for sure. But it is recent."

I nodded. "When you say there is no rhyme or reason, do you mean there isn't a connection to, say, the weather or any —" I cleared my throat "—other activities of yours?"

I hated to bring up his cocaine habit, for he knew I minded it and he had told me his opinion of the matter in no small terms, so I had little choice but to keep my disagreement with it to myself. However, the situation at hand was a medical matter so the question had to be asked.

He gave me a pointed look. "Not one I can fathom, no. And before you ask, no, I have not indulged today."

He looked me straight in the eye as he said it, knowing full well I would note the appearance of his pupils. They looked slightly dilated, but that looked like the result of reading music in bad lighting rather than cocaine. Satisfied, I reached out towards him, made a gesture towards his hand. "May I?"

He nodded. I took his hand into mine and he seemed to flinch at the touch. I felt for swelling of the joints or any signs of inflammation in the sinews or muscles but I could not detect anything of the sort. He had beautiful hands, long, sensitive fingers that I knew were as clever on the board of a violin as on tricky chemical experiments.

I sighed. "I can find nothing wrong." If the fault, as I suspected, was not in the hand itself, there were any number of afflictions that might cause what I had witnessed earlier, and most of them in the realm of a specialist's expertise. "Have you eaten today?" I asked, trying to rule out the more obvious causes first.

He looked at me as though I'd casually enquired if he'd seen the Emperor of China today. "I don't think so. I had no appetite."

Holmes had an unhealthy habit of not eating on his cases, but I knew for a fact he was between cases, so he really had no reason not to. I resisted the urge to shake my head at this. Instead I drew out my watch and felt for his pulse, checking it against the seconds. It was fluttery and much faster than I had expected, but steady.

"Thank you." I let go of his hand and sat back. So, we had clumsiness, dilated pupils, lack of appetite, and a fluttery pulse. Most of these I could put down to my friend's idiosyncrasies, but in another person...

"Holmes, if you were anyone else, I'd diagnose you with a case of being in love."

A shadow passed over his face. When he addressed me, his voice was soft around the edges.

"And why is that? Do you not think me capable of such a thing?"

There was no right way to answer this. "You said yourself—" I began and turned towards him.

The light seemed to have shifted and I suddenly felt exposed beneath his gaze.

"My dear Watson, we all say many things, and they're not all true at all times."

What I did next was one of the stupidest things I have ever done in my life, but as I have it on good authority that bravery and stupidity are not very different from one another, so I suppose it depends on which way one chooses to look at my actions. I lifted his hand up to my face until it came to rest on my cheek. He did not pull away, did not look away from me. But his fingers were steady and he closed his eyes.

I could not have kept from kissing him if I had tried.

"So this is what you recommend to cure this affliction?" he asked when we came up for air.

"Yes," I answered, "and a good many things besides."

And thankfully, we weren't going to need a specialist for any of them.


End file.
